The Kennedy Debutante

by Kerri Maher

  At lunch Peter didn’t even wait for the soup to say, “Kick, hear me out.”

  “Of course,” she said, glancing around the large dining room to see if she knew anyone there. The coast was clear, but she was sweating nonetheless. Please God, don’t let him take out a ring here and now.

  “I’ve missed you, Kick. I’m not afraid to admit it, even though I know you have everyone here wrapped around your little finger. You could have anyone you want.”

  “Hardly,” she said, dismissing his words with a wave of her hand.

  “You know it’s true. You don’t have to be modest with me. I’ve always liked your forthrightness.”

  “Thank you,” she said. She wasn’t being forthright now, though, was she?

  “And I hope you’ll appreciate my being honest with you, too,” he went on.

  “Please do,” she said, even though every muscle in her body had just cramped with fear. The waiter brought their bouillabaisse, and the scent of the seafood made her want to retch. She only picked up the sterling silver spoon because it was something to do.

  “Well, Kick, here it is,” said Peter. “I can tell you’re not ready to make any promises. You’re having a good time over here. And why not, with your dad as ambassador and all. But I know you’re a good Catholic girl, and soon you’ll have to think about your future. Maybe very soon if Hitler keeps up the way he is.”

  “Let’s hope not,” she said, relieved to utter words that didn’t feel false, “and not just for my sake.”

  “But Hitler or no Hitler,” Peter said, his brown eyes trained on her, “I’m sure your parents will want you to set up house sooner rather than later. And my house would be more than comfortable. Don’t discount the life we could have together,” he said.

  “I won’t,” she said, feeling her shoulders and stomach unclench a bit—this didn’t feel like a proposal. She wouldn’t have to make a decision immediately. “And I do appreciate your honesty,” she added.

  “I got you something that I hope will help you remember me better while you’re over here,” he said, and from his inside jacket pocket—a brown linen jacket, all wrong for lunch at the Savoy, where all the other men were in more formal gabardine—he pulled out a long, slim, brown velvet box.

  Thank goodness, not a ring. She exhaled as she took it from him across the table.

  “I had plenty of time to shop while I was waiting for you to get back,” he said pleasantly enough, but she knew it was a reprimand for skipping town as soon as he’d arrived, and it made opening the box a penance.

  Inside was a gold link bracelet, simple and unadorned except for a sapphire at the clasp that sparkled when it caught the light.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said, and it was. She only wished it had come from someone else. “I’ll think of you every time I wear it,” she said with a smile, passing it back to him and offering her wrist for him to fasten it on.

  Just as she was pulling her hand back to dutifully admire the gift, Sally Norton came into the dining room with two cousins Kick had heard were visiting.

  Taking in the scene, a lunch with wine and an open jewelry box on the table, Sally cocked her perfectly arched blond brow and waved at them. Kick put on her best Kennedy smile and waved back.

  Showing no interest in who’d just walked in, Peter picked up his spoon and said, “Just don’t wait too long,” before diving into the bouillabaisse like a man dying from hunger.

  There was no way to see Billy to explain anything before she left for Cannes, because he was already up in Scotland. When she talked to Debo on the phone, her friend promised to set any rumors straight, and Kick got on the train to Dover telling herself that if Billy did hear what had happened, it would be God’s will, and she would do her best to accept it. But she prayed to the Virgin that it would not be her path.

  CHAPTER 8

  On the other side of her painted toes, the vast blue of the Mediterranean shimmered out to an almost invisible horizon, so indistinguishable was it from the azure of the sky.

  “How perfectly dull,” Kick said to Jack, who was lying on the cushioned chaise next to her, dripping from his latest dip in the pool.

  “Open your eyes, Kick. We’re in Eden-Roc.”

  “You are in Eden. I am in Mother’s fruit-and-fiber prison.”

  Jack chuckled. “You are looking very svelte, though.”

  “I’m starving. And I want to go to the clubs with you and Joe. If I can’t be with my friends, I’d like to at least have fun where I am.” But her mother was determined to make her lose the pounds she’d put on during the season, and, in her words, Even dancing can’t undo the ravages of too much champagne and cream sauce.

  “Buck up, kid. It’ll be over soon.”

  “In three more weeks!” Meanwhile, Sally Norton was no doubt insinuating herself with Billy.

  “Why don’t you come with me to Austria?”

  “What would we do there?”

  “Tour the castles. Hike the mountains. Drink beer. Jimmy’s invited me. I’ll have to do some fact-finding for Dad, but it shouldn’t interfere too much with our fun.”

  She wondered if she could lose the last four pounds by then. “And what’ll we tell Mother?”

  “You’re coming to keep me in line?” Jack smirked, and Kick knew exactly why. He hadn’t shut up about it.

  Kick rolled her eyes. “I wish you wouldn’t gloat so much.”

  “She’s a movie star, Kick. The movie star.”

  “Marlene Dietrich is hardly the movie star anymore, Jack. Try Vivien Leigh.”

  “The younger ones aren’t as . . . experienced as Marlene. Dad would be proud, don’t you think? Chip off the old block?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t talk about Daddy that way.”

  “You know it’s true, though. I don’t believe in protecting you like Mom and Dad do.”

  Jack smiled widely. She suspected he’d shone that same smile on Marlene Dietrich when he’d bumped into her at the Cap d’Antibes Hotel three days before. No one had ever been able to resist it. Since his little brother had made off with the movie star, Joe Jr. hadn’t spoken to Jack; instead he roughhoused with Teddy and Bobby in the surf and read books about Spain, as he’d recently become obsessed with seeing the revolution there in action. Their father had forbidden him to go, however, saying, “I’ll be damned if my oldest son goes to the bloodiest place since the Somme, especially when I’m spending all my time trying to avoid another war in the rest of Europe.”

  Jack closed his eyes and faced the sun. Kick flipped through her magazine, unable to focus on any of the pictures. Maybe some time with her pleasure-seeking brother, away from the rest of the family, was just what she needed.

  * * *

  Rose took her five daughters out for a special lunch and shopping excursion in Monte Carlo two days before Kick was to leave for Austria.

  “You look wonderful, Kick,” said her mother warmly, using her nickname, which she rarely did. They were strolling side by side down a sun-flooded street with Rosemary and Pat ahead of them, arm in arm; and behind them, Jean and Eunice were gossiping about Marlene Dietrich’s party at a neighboring resort. If only they knew, thought Kick.

  Kick did feel lighter. To be exact, she was ten meticulously weighed pounds thinner than when she’d arrived. She also felt light-headed, since the grapefruit and thin slice of dark bread she’d eaten for breakfast had been close to four hours ago. The thousands of dollars her mother had just spent on her in Chanel, then in Lanvin, had not fully distracted her from her hunger, nor from the nagging sense that something more than her size had changed recently. She wanted to bask in her mother’s compliment and the shower of new clothes, but inside her empty stomach was some sort of barrier that only let Rose’s best intentions permeate so far.

  “Didn’t I tell you that being closer to God here in France would set us righ
t again?” her mother asked.

  “You were right, of course,” Kick agreed, though in truth she felt closer to God in St. Mary’s with Father O’Flaherty, or praying on her knees before bed.

  “It’s a pity Peter couldn’t see you now, so lithe and tan. But I’m sure he’ll visit again, won’t he?”

  “Are you so anxious for me to get married?” Kick asked.

  “Certainly not,” her mother laughed in her high voice, sounding like a cartoon ghost on a Halloween movie reel. “But I do want you distracted from Billy Hartington and his sort.”

  “I thought you wanted me to fit in,” Kick said, beginning to chew the inside of her lip, a childhood habit she had recently found herself doing again. Sometimes she only realized she’d been at it when she tasted blood.

  “Of course I do! But please, don’t forget who you are.” Rose paused for effect before going on. “If you’re not madly in love with Peter Grace, then maybe you’d like Edward Ashcroft? Or John Parkinson? He’s certainly handsome, and so industrious! I heard he got a first at Oxford in philosophy and is doing very well for himself in the City.”

  Ah yes, more rich Catholic Englishmen. “If they ring me, I’ll let them take me to lunch. But I can’t promise to fall in love with them, Mother.” Her lower lip felt ragged when she ran her tongue over it.

  “Of course not. Just give them a chance.”

  Rose looped her bony arm through Kick’s and leaned on her daughter, and said in her most lavish, cozy tone, “Shall we stop in to Hermès before lunch?”

  Kick would have taken a grilled cheese and soda over Hermès at that point, but she followed her mother into the sumptuous store, wondering what was wrong with her. It wasn’t just that she wanted to eat and her mother wanted to shop that bothered Kick; it was the sense that so many of her desires were departing from those of her mother these days. And this scared her. Who is Kick Kennedy? she wondered. What sort of future does she have?

  * * *

  At first, Austria seemed like exactly the right medicine. She and Jack relaxed in a stunning house overlooking the sparkling Wörthersee with Jimmy Foster, hiked the mountains and ate sausages with dark bread—though she was careful not to overindulge, lest her mother regret her decision to let Kick go. One night they met Jack’s Harvard friend Paul Baker, and Paul’s friend Rudi, at a club ironically named Schloss Armstrong. Far from a castle, this schloss was a small, dark bar down a few steps from the street at the end of a long alleyway, then down more steps, where an excellent band played if not a Louis Armstrong tune, then at least a Cole Porter song in perfect harmony.

  The place was almost full at ten o’clock, but they managed to secure the last table. Rudi, the son of the former Austrian minister to Rome, and also a Jew, was very nervous that their table was next to one occupied by three young Nazis in uniform who were drinking large steins of beer and playing cards.

  He immediately began mopping his brow with a wrinkled handkerchief, whispering earnestly, “Please, no loud references to my father or any other obvious detail.”

  Jack nodded silently. Kick and Paul did, too. How awful to have to constantly hide oneself.

  They ordered beer and pretzels, and the fizzy pilsner cooled them off in the hot underground room. Sweat dripped from the noses of the trumpet and trombone players onto their shiny brass instruments, then onto the floor.

  “No ventilation down here,” said Paul as he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the back of his chair, then offered Kick his hand for a rendition of Benny Goodman’s “Stompin’ at the Savoy.” Might as well dance, Kick thought. I’m already hot. Jack, ever fresh in a linen suit, sat and talked with Rudi about recent films.

  After a few songs, Paul and Kick shimmied back to the table and stood beside their friends, panting and slugging cold beer. Wet stains were spreading on Paul’s shirt, but he didn’t seem to mind, nor did Kick mind the drops rolling down her back. Dancing always lifted her mood.

  As they drank, one of the Nazis at the neighboring table stood up, pointed at Paul, and said something in aggressive German.

  Paul replied, and Kick couldn’t tell if he was being confrontational or not; to her ears, German always sounded pushy. From his seat, Rudi’s eyes darted between his friend and the tall young man in uniform. Kick thought she could see him trying to melt into his chair and become invisible. The music was still playing, but Kick thought she heard the buzz of the other patrons die down as they turned their ears to the conflict brewing at their table. Her heart sped up nervously.

  Jack sat still, and Kick stood unmoving beside Paul.

  The Nazi shouted louder at Paul, which fully silenced the other people in the club, though the band played on. Lord God, please don’t let anything terrible happen, she prayed. She had never been truly afraid before, not like this, and she had to suppress an urge to run. Her legs felt tense and ready.

  Paul shouted back at the Nazi, and it became absolutely clear that he was in fact being confrontational.

  Rudi kneaded his handkerchief. The clenching in Kick’s legs spread upward, priming her whole body for escape.

  When the Nazi took a few steps toward Paul, his right fist clenched, Jack stood up, threw a wad of German reichsmarks, Austria’s new currency, on the table, and clapped his hand on Paul’s shoulder. “Time to get my sister home,” he said firmly. For once, Kick was grateful to be the feminine reason for ending an evening early. She felt a rush of blood course through her relieved body.

  Paul gave one final menacing look at the Nazi, pulled his jacket off the chair with a flourish, and stalked out.

  Soaked with perspiration, Kick followed, with Rudi and Jack behind her. They hurried silently into the street, then down two blocks, where they checked to make sure they were alone. Then Rudi exploded at Paul. “Why didn’t you just put on your jacket when they asked?”

  “Because they need to know they don’t own us all,” Paul spat. Loathing for the Nazis oozed out of him as profusely as the sweat that ran into his ears.

  “What if they had refocused their attentions on me?” Rudi demanded.

  “You would have been fine.”

  “All they would have to do is look at me and ask where I live, and they would know I am a Jew.”

  “You don’t have to tell them. Or you could lie,” Paul suggested, daring his friend.

  Rudi shook his head, disgusted. “It’s so easy for you.” Then, after giving his head one final shake, he took Jack’s hand and pumped it appreciatively. “Thank you, friend.”

  “You’re welcome,” Jack replied, clasping Rudi’s hand with both of his.

  Rudi turned to Kick and said, “It was a pleasure to meet you, Kathleen. Please enjoy your stay in my country, for I fear it won’t be Austria much longer.”

  Kick felt queasy. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to dance,” she said with as warm a smile as she could muster.

  “I’m not much of a dancer anyway,” sighed Rudi. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get home.”

  Without waiting for another reply, Rudi shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and stalked off into the night. Later, Kick couldn’t sleep, knowing that no matter how many children her father and Father O’Flaherty might save, neither of them could protect Rudi and the thousands—or was it millions?—like him. At least, they couldn’t do it without the fight that Winston Churchill was spoiling for and her father was dead set against.

  * * *

  Kick was relieved to get back to Cannes, where there were no swastikas in the street and she could swim cleansing laps in the club’s pool. She even felt grateful to get back to the predictability of her mother’s regimen of prayer and diet. She wrote Billy and Debo and Jane letters, but mentioned to no one except God what had happened with Rudi. She worried about him daily, what with all the news flooding the radio about Hitler threatening Czechoslovakia and calling up a million German reserve figh
ters. And Roosevelt didn’t make anything feel more stable with his speech saying the United States would defend Canada if Hitler and his ally Mussolini attacked America’s neighbor and friend. But the worst of it were the telegrams from their father in London sending his love and also telling them they might “get to return home soon.”

  Home. Was that New York? Boston? With a war on here in Europe and her friends fighting in it? No American city would feel like home.

  Kick’s mind swirled as she swam in the Mediterranean on a blue morning in late August, her muscles getting more and more fatigued with each stroke. She’d grown weary of the pool and craved the greater physical challenge of open water. It reminded her of her racing days in Hyannis Port. But she quickly started to feel tired and hungry. Her brothers and sisters were off aquaplaning, and she could just make out their shrieks of delight in the distance. They were far enough away, though, that when she felt herself getting caught up in a current, none of them could see that she was in trouble. She was pummeled by the sea, salty waves whooshing over her head and pushing her body to and fro. She kept trying to swim up and against it, and to shout, but opening her mouth only sent water down her throat.

  She began to pray. Our Father, hear my prayer. Mary! Hail Mary full of grace, send our Lord to me . . . Please! Oh please please please . . .

  Her prayers were heard, and hands on her arms and torso dragged her to shore, where she coughed water and bile onto the beach. Then the white midday sun hit her retinas, and she lost consciousness.

  She woke to the sensation of satin sheets against her legs and arms, and she knew she was not in her parents’ villa. Rose didn’t believe in satin sheets, saying they inhibited the body’s ability to breathe in the night. She preferred a finely woven cotton. Not entirely conscious, Kick slid her limbs against the luxurious fabric and some tabloid detail flashed to her mind, something about a movie star who said how much she liked to wake up with her lover, and Kick’s mind went straight to Billy—his long body, his cedar scent, his lips. Then she felt a strong tug in a deep part of her body, followed by a series of hot pulses that ricocheted through her, causing her to convulse gently against the slippery sheets.